


The Ways We Bend (And Break And Mend)

by RageSeptember



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Bondage, But Doesn't Particularly Feel Like Apologizing So, Cuddling, Dark!Charles, Dom Charles and sub Erik, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Erik Tries Being Sneaky, Eventual and Surprisingly Levelheaded Conversation About Feelings, Hair-pulling, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, Hurt/Comfort, Irresponsible Use of Telepathy, Kink Negotiation After the Fact, M/M, Many And Complicated Feelings, Mind Control, Post-DOFP, Praise Kink, Reconciliation, Things Backfire but Surprisingly Work Out Anyway, This Writer Has No Excuse, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Whipping, but also regular!Charles, not safe or sane, secret sub!Erik, surprise sadist!Charles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-10 05:15:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7831771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RageSeptember/pseuds/RageSeptember
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months after Washington Charles is well on his way to recover health, sanity and purpose, but not yet ready to accept Erik's overtures of reconciliation. When Erik decides to press the issue with an unexpected proposal, things quickly spiral out of control and both men are forced to confront not only their feelings for one another but the complicated nature of their desires as well.</p><p>Or, the fic that was really supposed to be nothing but kink but unexpectedly turned into character drama.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bend

**Author's Note:**

> My heartfelt and eternal thanks to valancysnaith who offered steadfast support and encouragment, and endured my endless fretting. If not for her, it is highly unlikely this story would ever have been written. Assign credit or blame as you see fit.
> 
>  **A note on consent:** Although Erik willingly offers informed blanket consent in the first chapter, he is eventually rendered unable to revoke said consent in chapter two. While Erik has forseen and is largely fine with this, you might want to give this one a skip if you're not. Additionally - and on a slightly spoilery note - the consent Charles gives turns out to be uninformed, because Erik is sneaky and strange. However, this is eventually addressed and discussed by the characters.

The third postcard features a brilliant red sun setting over a beach and _maybe you didn't think this_ _imagery_ _all the way through, Erik_. Charles almost doesn't bother reading the short message on the other side, but all it takes is a quick glance: Nf6.

It's the third opening move he has received in twice as many weeks. Never mind that Charles was usually the one to play white, and never mind that he hasn't made any sort of reply to the first two starters. He's not even sure how he'd go about sending a counter move, had he been so inclined; there's no return address. No signature either, for that matter.

Hank hasn't mentioned the cards, even though he's been the one to bring them in from the mailbox, and even though it wouldn't take someone of half his intelligence to figure out who's been writing them. Charles has caught him glancing at the chessboard in the study from time to time, however, and he doesn't need to read his friend's mind to know what he's thinking, wondering. But none of the pieces has been moved and the decade-old game remains frozen in time and half-played.

Nf6. A standard move, one of Erik's favourites. Maybe even the one he'd opened that last game with all those years ago; Charles can't remember, and doesn't particularly want to.

Nf6. A peace-offering, and one that Charles might want to accept, considering that _peace_ has long since been on the top of his wish-list. But –

– but he's still getting used to not having his legs _for the second time_ , and the reclaimed telepathy is overwhelming and painful and everything he started taking the serum not to experience. Oh, sure, it's getting better day by day, the temptation to shoot up again lessening with each small move they make towards opening the school again. And yes, he really does hope and believe that one day they'll all be together again, family reunited and the old hurts forgotten, but they're not there yet. Not by a long shot.

He crumples the card, is about to let it drop to the floor –

Thinks better of it and wheels himself over to the rubbish bin. Cleaning up his rooms had taken weeks, and he's not about to let things fall apart over Erik once more.

\---

Charles had hoped to have the school open for students come autumn, but as the summer draws to a close he's forced to admit that Hank is right; they're not ready. Too many teachers still left to hire, too many permits and licences to be renewed, and then there's advertising, if they want to actually have any students -

 _You're not ready_ , Hank doesn't say.

 _Not yet_ , Charles privately allows. As it turns out, a regained sense of hope and purpose is not enough to magically erase five years of destructive habits. But: the two fingers of scotch in the glass next to him on the desk is all he'll be having tonight, and with his signature on the forms before him he secures the services of a professional cook for the school.

Recovery might be a slow process, but it is a steady one. There are whole days now where he doesn't spend hours wondering where Raven is, where Erik is. (And then there are the other days, but fewer now, and fewer nightmares too.)

Putting the paperwork away for the night, Charles gives a long yawn and glances at the watch on his bed table. A quarter to ten, but he doesn't feel like going to bed just yet. The August night is dark but warm, the air drifting in through the open French window fragrant with sunflowers and freesia. He'll take the rest of the scotch in the library, he decides; read for a while. Pushing back from the desk, he –

His breath catches. For a split second he thinks it must be just another trick of his still sometimes unstable powers, but no, there is no mistaking the quickly approaching mind. Bright, burning, a brilliant fire contained by rigidly imposed structure, recognizable to him anywhere, anytime –

And right enough; Charles turns his head, and there he is, climbing in through the window like some lovesick teenager from a hundred cliched TV shows. Charles would laugh, except he's too busy trying to tame the wild swirl of emotions that threatens to drown him. Anger, relief, fear, longing, love, betrayal –

If Erik takes notice of Charles' inner turmoil, he is careful not to show it. Clean-shaven and with short hair rumpled from the breeze, he looks much the same as when last they met, though the ridiculous Magneto get-up has been replaced with a simple dark shirt and slacks. He brushes an invisible piece of lint of his shoulders; smiles. ”Hello, old friend.”

Charles doesn't answer.

Erik's eyes find the chessboard, an ostentatious marble one neither of them had favoured and rarely used. Looks from it to Charles, eyebrow arched. ”Ah, so you haven't thrown them all away then. I was beginning to wonder.”

”What are you doing here, Erik?” He is quite proud of how very calm he sounds.

The bastard has the audacity to give him a sardonic look. ”You haven't been returning my messages.”

”And how was I supposed to do that, pray tell?” Charles knows that Erik knows him well enough to recognize the icy politeness for the insult it is.

”Since you're in the chair I assume you have your powers again. And as you know, I don't have my helmet.”

True enough, but without Cerebro none of that matters, and Cerebro is not yet repaired after Raven's act of vandalism. Erik doesn't need to know that, however, and besides, it's not like Charles would have reached out to the other even if he'd had the opportunity. ”I'm not playing chess with you,” he says with great finality.

He'd consented to a game on the plane. And then Erik had betrayed them. Again.

”Why not?” Bloody hell, but the question actually sounds _sincere_ , as if the answer isn't obvious.

Charles isn't sure if the choked noise he makes can rightly be described as a laugh. ”Why - ? Are you actually insane?” That would explain rather a lot, really. Shaking his head, he turns his back on the other to grab his scotch from the desk. ”Why on Earth _would_ I play with you?”

”You let me go in Washington.” Matter-of-factly, as if that explains everything, and if there's a hint of uncertainty in the other's voice, it's faint enough that Charles can write it off as just his imagination. Which he prefers to do, for a number of reasons.

He downs the scotch, puts the glass back on the desk. Turns back to Erik, meeting the other's gaze unflinchingly. ”You'll remember that I'm not a proponent of death or violence. The fact that I don't want to see you executed or tortured doesn't mean I want to actually have anything to do with you.” He means for the words to hurt, but there's truth to them as well – just as there's truth in the terrible, traitorous sense of _rightness_ in seeing Erik back in these rooms.

”I know that you're angry - ”

”Ah, top marks, Erik. You always were clever.”

Erik's starting to look angry himself, Charles notes, not without some small measure of petty satisfaction. Angry, and impatient. ”I am trying to make things right.” Lips thin, teeth gritted.

Charles laughs again. ”By playing chess? And to think of all those times you accused _me_ of being naive.”

”How then?”

”Excuse me?”

Erik spreads his arms wide. ”What would you have me do, Charles? I can't change what happened, so what do you want from me?”

 _To_ _leave me the hell alone_. But he doesn't say it out loud because there's the chance Erik will take him at his word and disappear to God knows where, never to be seen again. And while Charles very definitively isn't ready to kiss and make-up just yet, he certainly doesn't want to lose the other forever either.

It would really be so much easier if he could just hate the man.

”It's not that simple,” he mutters, retreating behind the desk to create some space them. It _had_ almost been that simple, on the plane; Erik's quiet apology, taking him by surprise. But that was before Erik tried to kill Raven, Hank, Logan, and a whole lot of other people. Oh, and before he dropped a stadium at Charles. ”I am terribly sorry that my anger so very distressing to you, Erik, but I'm afraid I can't manipulate my own mind to forget how incredibly, absolutely furious I am with you.”

”So that's it? You'll keep on ignoring me and continue to be furious for the rest of our lives?”

Charles wonders if it would really be so unforgivably childish to throw the inkstand at Erik. Surely not, when the man has the gall to cross his arms and glare at Charles with what can only be described as _disapproval_.

Sadly, the stand is made from bronze and thus unlikely to ever reach its intended target. The insight does little to improve Charles' mood.

”You don't get to do this,” he says, and now he doesn't bother trying to keep his voice calm. ”You don't get to come here after everything you've done and blame me for not forgiving you the moment you decide you're sorry – ”

”I'm not,” Erik bites back, taking a step forward. ”I don't _blame_ you Charles, but this isn't _you_. Holding grudges, clinging to anger.” He shakes his head. ”It's not you.”

 _It's me_. Unspoken, but heard all the same. Suddenly Erik's thoughts are very loud; so far, there's been nothing sipping out for Charles to read without actively trying, but now there's no avoiding the burst of _frustration-impatience-desperation-concern-concern-concern._

”There was a time when you were constantly telling me not be so naive and trusting and quick to forgive.” And when Charles failed to respond to his verbal admonitions, Erik had proceeded to convince him of everyone's inherent lack of trustworthiness in a more direct manner –

Erik's shoulders sag almost imperceptibly. ”I was wrong about a lot of things.”

Charles refuses to be moved by the note of defeat in the other's voice. ”Yes, you were.”

”But I'm not wrong about this. Sulking and pretending I don't exist isn't going to solve – ”

”I already told you that I can't just decide not to be angry – ”

”Then maybe you should act on that anger rather than wallow in it.”

That gives Charles pause. ”I'm sorry?”

Erik takes another step forward and he's right in front of Charles now, no more than a yard and a wooden desk separating them. The look on his face is very intent. ”You can punish me.”

”I'm sorry?” He is aware of repeating himself, but he can't be hearing this right.

”You can't just let go of your anger, fine. Spend it instead. Hurt me, punish me. Take your revenge.” Inexplicably, Erik doesn't look like he's joking, nor like he realizes that this is the most ridiculous idea ever.

Once more it's up to Charles to be the voice of reason. A slightly squeaky one, but still. ”This is absurd. How can you even – ”

”You were perfectly fine to punch me in the face back at the Pentagon.” A raised brow, a small grin, and _fuck him_. ”Got a decent swing too.”

”Well, I can't exactly punch you now, can I?” Which isn't the point, really, but still a valid one. Nothing to put behind a blow without the support of his legs.

”You don't have to actually _do_ it, do you?” Off Charles' uncomprehending look Erik gestures vaguely towards his head: ”You can make me see and feel whatever you want.”

”This is your idea of conflict resolution? Chess, or I telepathically beat you up?” Charles lets out a huff of weak laughter, pushing away from the desk, away from Erik, away from the dawning realization that he's not as revolted by the idea as he should be. Bringing his glass to the sideboard, he pours himself a generous dram. Surely he's allowed, given the turn this evening's taken.

Erik, never one to take a hint when he doesn't want to, follows him. ”I'm serious,” he tells Charles' back. ”You don't have to punch me in the face. That's entirely up to you. That's the point. We'll be in your mind, you'll be in complete control. You can do whatever you like to me, and I won't be able to stop you.”

And damn him to hell, but there's something staggeringly appealing about that notion. Erik had taken everything away from him, and now he was offering Charles to take some of it back, reclaim some of the lost sense of power and control –

Damn it _all_ to hell. What's one more ill-conceived, hasty decision between them? It's not like he hasn't been itching to ram the other with his wheelchair since he appeared in the window, anyway. Charles swallows the whisky down in one long gulp. ”Fine.”


	2. Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second part of a three part story, i.e. the bit where everything goes to hell. This chapter puts the hurt in hurt/comfort and includes several things you should not try at home even if you happen to be a telepath; see fic tags for warnings. This is neither safe nor sane, yes? 
> 
> Once more, all my love to the ever supportive valancysnaith, and to goingbadly for offering helpful advise when I, much like Charles, had no clue how much whipping is a lot of whipping.

For all intents and purposes, the room they're standing in is identical to the physical one they've left behind. Same bed and same desk, the same French window open to the same warm August night. The only difference is that Charles _is_ standing, as always in any mindscape of his own making.

Erik looks around. ”Very impressive.” He lifts his hand experimentally, gestures towards the inkstand Charles never threw at him. It gently rises and hovers above the desk. ”I can control my movements. Use my powers.”

”Until I decide that you can't.” Charles glances at the inkstand and it falls to the desk with a loud clang. Erik's arm shoots out to the left, then straight up, then uselessly down, not of Erik's volition. It takes no effort at all, manipulating the other man's limbs – or, strictly speaking, their shared perception of them. In the physical world, taking over Erik's body to remove the fallen pieces of stadium from on top of Charles had been a chore, but here, it is as easy as breathing.

_You can do whatever you like to me, and I won't be able to stop you._

Had Erik realized how very true those words were? Will he regret his offer now, when faced with the full implications of it? But looking at the other from across the room, Charles sees no fear and no hesitation on his face. That doesn't necessarily mean a thing; Erik's features rarely reveal what he doesn't want them to. It'd be easy to read his mind and pry from him his true feelings, but Charles refrains. The thoughts of others can still be overwhelming to him, and Erik's mind has never been anything but intense.

Silence, and a long moment where neither of them moves. Charles finds himself at a loss for what to do next. His reckless agreement had been motivated by a complicated tangle of emotions and desires, not any actual plan for how to satisfy them. Though the notion of punching Erik in the face still doesn't lack for appeal, he can't quite see himself walking up to the man and doing so in cold blood.

Erik doesn't offer any hints. He just stands there, eyes never leaving Charles. Inexplicably, it's making Charles feel vulnerable, exposed, as if he's the one brought here to be chastised.

The small annoyance brought on by the realization is enough for Charles to find his voice.

”On your knees,” he says curtly, hoping the short command conveys nothing of his uncharacteristic insecurity, his doubts.

It seems as good a place to start as any.

Erik doesn't as much as blink. He simply kneels down on the wooden floor by the desk, eyes still locked on Charles' face.

So very collected. Even now, when he's completely at Charles' mercy, Erik just doesn't _give_. The cool detachment can be exasperating at any time, but right now, when Charles is struggling and fumbling and feeling like a damn fool because of Erik _yet again_ , it is nigh on infuriating.

The resurfacing anger is a relief, and Charles grasps for it with both hands. _Act on it_ , Erik had said, and maybe it hadn't been a challenge, but the memory of it makes it sound like one.

_Very well. Let's see how you like it when I do._

Two steps, and he is by the Erik's side. ”This is what you wanted?” Charles' hand is a tight fist in Erik's hair, twisting his head sharply to the side. ”Yes? You think this will earn you redemption?”

Erik doesn't reply, nor does he try to shift his head to ease some of the strain. He remains perfectly still on his knees, arms hanging to his sides.

Charles can feel his lips curl into something close to a sneer, the sudden surge of fury making it a bitter, vicious thing. He lets go of Erik's hair, only to slap him hard across the face, and it isn't difficult at all. ”Very well. Let's see, shall we?”

Erik's breath hitches and his head snaps back at the impact, but he still doesn't shift from his position on the floor. There's something new in his eyes, though, pupils widened with surprise or wariness. At the slap or the anger – or merely at the fact that Charles had actually decided to go through with this?

_Yes, well, you **asked** for it, so you'd better lap it up._

He takes a step back, eyeing the other critically. Pink blooms on Erik's face and some small part of Charles is surprised to realize that it's really quite fetching, the way the other man's left cheek burns red where the slap fell.

Some small part of Charles isn't surprised at all.

”Take off your shirt,” he orders, and the command doesn't feel strange on his tongue. Something slid into place, or something unlocked.

Erik hesitates, just for a moment, and then slowly begins to undo the buttons one by one. Still no hint of fear, but he looks slightly dazed, as if not quite prepared for this turn of events. It is… satisfying in a way that has very little to do with how fed up Charles is with floundering in the face of Erik's studied stoicism.

Taking his time, Charles cocks his head to the side and considers the man before him. He's seen Erik shirtless before, of course, but never like this; a brief glimpse of his friend's chest or back as he dresses after a shower in yet another motel room doesn't compare to him shrugging out of his shirt at Charles' command, eyes unyielding as he drops the garment to the floor.

Charles has always known Erik to be an attractive man, had known it long before he realized _(much too late)_ that he was in love with him. Never more attractive than now, and whether it's because Charles is finally giving himself time and permission to properly look, or because the situation in and of itself lends something more than mere beauty to Erik's looks… Ah, well, it hardly matters, does it?

He traces the scars, many and varied, with his eyes, and bites back an impulse to reach out and do the same with his hand. Once the marks had inspired compassion, but now they are merely aesthetic details to be savoured, along with well-defined pectorals, small nipples, a slim waist.

Erik stares right back at him, deeply ingrained and – Charles suspects – reflexive defiance reasserting itself. ”Like what you see?”

”Yes,” Charles says, unperturbed, refusing the bait. ”Though I think I'd like it a whole lot more if you were standing over there.” He nods toward the empty wall next to a bookcase by the far end of the room. ”Up you get. Hands against the wall, please.”

He's beginning to enjoy himself; perhaps this will prove fun as well as cathartic.

Climbing to his feet, Erik does as told, but slowly, and Charles doesn't need to read his mind to know the lack of speed for calculated insubordination.

 _Oh no, n_ _one of that now._ A small gesture of his hand, and Erik flies across half the room and slams into the wall with a loud crash. Had this happened in the real world, Charles thinks with a curious lack of sympathy, Erik would likely have broken his nose. Then again, in the real world, telekinesis isn't part of Charles' repertoaire, so the point is moot.

They're not in the real world now.

Keeping Erik pinned against the wall, he saunters over. ”My dear friend, let's be very clear about one thing. When we're in here, I am – as you so astutely mentioned before – in complete control. When I tell you to do something, you will do it immediately and without any fuss, or I will make you.” Stopping right next to the other, he watches the futile struggle against his invisible, impossible bonds for a moment before continuing: ”Do you understand?”

”Yes.” The response is offered through gritted teeth, but it is offered quickly.

”Marvellous.” Pleased, Charles takes a step back and releases his hold on Erik's body. The other staggers back, halfway down on the floor before he regains his balance and forces himself upright. His breathing is uneven, too quick, but the look in his gray eyes hard.

Nothing but resilient, Erik.

Charles allows himself a small smile. ”Let's try again. Hands against the wall, please.”

Grim satisfaction mingles with a spike of pleasure as he watches Erik shift to do as told. As always, there's a beauty to the other man's movements; not that of a dancer or an athlete, but the graceful economy of a predator. There is nothing remotely submissive about the way Erik holds himself, even as he obediently, wordlessly, presses his palms against the patterned wallpaper and plants his feet firmly apart for maximum balance. A vulnerable position, and still the ruthless arrogance is as evident as ever.

Charles finds that he doesn't mind. Anybody can tame a meek man; to bring one such as this one to heel, well that's -

Intoxicating.

Discomfort immediately follows the realization. Charles is neither inexperienced nor naive and he's never been one to say no to a bit of rough play, all fun and games, but he's never thought himself to be someone who would truly enjoy controlling others _(Raven would disagree),_ or hurting them. He's not sure how to deal with this new insight, and promptly decides to leave it for later. Preferably when he hasn't got a half-naked Erik standing two feet away because that really is rather distracting.

Erik's shoulders shift slightly with the slow rise and fall of his breathing, but is otherwise once more utterly still.

Charles probes then, ever so slightly; just the merest touch of telepathy, skimming the surface of Erik's thoughts. Mostly there's stoic calm, but of the carefully enforced kind, and just beneath it he can sense tense anticipation. It's there in the way Erik is acutely aware of every sound Charles makes, in the way he very deliberately doesn't look up or as much as twitch when Charles walks away from him, across the room to the walk-in closet next to the en-suite.

Charles realizes that he is smiling again, the taste of Erik's quiet apprehension kindling something within him that is both vicious and delighted. If he takes his time in the closet, fingers linger over thick leather and thin, it has little to do with any actual concern about what will make the best implement, and everything to do with dragging the moment out and letting the tension mount. It's almost a minute before he finally grabs a heavy black belt, and all the while he's gloriously conscious of Erik's hyper focused attention. It is sweet; tantalizing.

He stops to close the French window on his way back from the closet. Not that there is anyone out there who could hear – not that there is any actual _out there_ – but it seems prudent to create a sense of privacy. Oh, and a sense of confinement, too.

With the wind and soft chirruping of insects shut out, the only sound to be heard is Charles' own slow footfalls and the creak and jingle of him wrapping the end of the belt around his hand, grabbing hold of the buckle. As he comes to a halt just behind Erik, he can feel but not see the faintest of tremors pass through the man, and Charles smiles again.

Erik isn't afraid, and Charles wouldn't want him to be – not really – but it is still supremely satisfying to know that the man, for all his outward complacency, isn't indifferent to what's happening.

Charles takes a moment so savour the knowledge, before withdrawing from Erik's thoughts and moving a little to the side for what he deems the best position. He has no prior experience with this sort of thing, but it seems to him a simple enough procedure, and it's not like he can cause any actual physical harm.

_It's not rocket science and you're a genius. Nothing to worry about._

Erik is quiet, tense, waiting.

Charles takes a steadying breath, raises his arm –

A moment passes, two. He lowers his arm again, letting out the breath he's been holding.

He can't. He just… can't.

It doesn't matter that this was Erik's idea; it doesn't matter that he's still angry enough with the other to have agreed to it  in the first place ; it doesn't matter that  a huge  part of him  bloody well  _aches_ to see  what sort of mark the belt would make on Erik's naked back, and that this has nothing to do with anger  or ve n geance.

_I can't shoot anybody point blank, let alone my friend._ He'd told Erik that, ages and ages ago, and while Erik's not exactly a friend,  not anymore,  and while he's not trying to shoot him, it appears to still hold true.

Charles hadn't lied when he told Logan that he's not good with violence. 

Now Erik does turn his head, and the look he gives Charles is impatient and – infuriatingly – disgusted. ”Any day now, Charles. Or would you rather bring Hank in here so he can hold your hand?  Or m aybe even do your dirty work for you,  if it's too much  –  ”

The rest of the sentence is cut short as the belt lands across his lower back with a loud crack. Erik doesn't cry out, of course he doesn't, but the small, choked gasp is enough to send a small shiver down Charles' spine. He hits Erik again, quickly, without giving himself time to think, or doubt. ”Be quiet,” he orders, and his voice is low, hard. ”Face forward.”

 _I need the situation, the anger_. Maybe they're not so different after all, Erik and he.

He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to find the point between rage and serenity he had urged Erik to grasp for back then. It is… difficult, once the immediate rush of anger has faded somewhat, but he perseveres, reaching for the hurt and resentment that has eaten at him for so long, willing himself to feel it without being drowned by it.

Eventually, he opens his eyes again. Erik has apparently decided to heed him this time, because he is obediently facing forward. Charles eyes are immediately drawn to the thick pink marks on his back, the colour a sharp contrast to the otherwise pale skin. The sight prompts a complicated jumble of emotions – pleasure, gratification, hunger, guilt – but Charles pushes it all away, for now. When he brings the belt down this time, aiming for the shoulders, he does so with icy, dogged calm.

”You deserve this,” he says slowly, as if trying the words, the notion, out.

Erik offers neither protest nor agreement, but Charles hadn't expected him to.

”You deserve this,” he repeats, more firmly this time, and the fourth lash lands almost on top of the third one.

It gets easier then, as he finds his rhythm and the unease begins to fade. Slow, steady, welt added to welt, a sharp intake of breath at a a particularly hard blow, otherwise nothing but the swish of the belt and the dull crack as it connects. Charles keeps the carefully regulated anger front and center in his mind, and lets it add increasing force and bite to the strikes. He takes his time with them, letting a few seconds or up to half a minute pass between each as he meticulously covers every inch of exposed skin. Shoulders, mid-back, shoulders, shoulders, the small of the back –

Never one to resort to brute force or violence before, he's somewhat astounded by how very good it feels simply to _hit_ something. That the 'something' happens to be a person who has caused him no small amount of pain -

Bonus.

(And if, as Erik jerks forward slightly with each lash, he feels something other than anger stir in his belly and below, he does his best to ignore it. Though the other has offered Charles leave to do whatever the hell he pleases it doesn't seem right to indulge in _that_ sort of feeling.)

By the time the individual marks start to blend into a uniform red, several minutes must have passed, but Charles has no idea how many times he’s brought the belt down on Erik’s back. More than two dozen, probably; certainly less than three. Is that a little or a lot? He doesn't know. Apart from the very occasional grunt and increasingly ragged breathing, there's little to suggest that the rough treatment has any particular effect on the other. Charles hadn't expected anything else; Erik is stubborn and proud and no stranger to pain, and it's hardly surprising that he should take a beating well. Still, Charles’ arm has begun to ache from the unusual movement, and while that would be easy enough to literally think away, perhaps they’ve both had enough –

Putting almost all his strength behind it, he lands two final blows in quick succession and then lets his arm fall, taking a step back. Only now, in the ensuing silence, does he realize that his breathing is almost as loud as Erik’s.

The other doesn't move immediately. Not, Charles suspects, because he is waiting for permission, but because he wants time to collect himself. And sure enough; by the time Erik turns to glance at him, the look on his face is perfectly neutral.

There's no disguising the high colour on his cheeks, though, or the fine beads of sweat on his brow. Charles has just decided to feel pretty pleased about the whole thing when Erik's gaze wanders down, and he arches an eyebrow. “You're awfully excited for someone who pretends to be a pacifist.”

_What - ? Oh. Damn._ Somehow he had entirely failed to notice how constricting his pants had become during the course of the whipping.

Charles sets his jaw against the embarrassment. It would take nothing more than a thought to make the erection disappear, but since Erik's already seen it, hiding it now would only seem like an admission of wrongdoing. ”You're awfully mouthy for a penitent,” he says instead.

Erik gives him a thoroughly unimpressed look. There is very little about him that suggests penitence at all, Charles notes with some dismay. Though his back is shading purple in places, and though the stiffness of his motions as he straightens from the wall suggests considerably more pain than his face does, Charles can find nothing humble there, no sign of surrender. Erik's voice may be hoarse, but it never wavers.

Good lord, what he wouldn't give for just one small crack in that carefully constructed facade. No, strike that – forget one small crack; he wants the other on his knees, wants him crumbling, begging, broken as Charles was broken, wants that damned composure and arrogance _shattered_ -

The vehement vividness of the image hits him like punch to the gut, leaving him winded and stumbling. His first instinct is deny the urge, fight it down, but _fuck that_. Suddenly, it doesn't matter one bit whether or not the other's had had enough, because _Charles_ sure as hell hasn't. ”Take off the rest of your clothes.”

A moment of silence, and Erik's eyes don't narrow, but the slow grin seems strained. ”Really, Charles, if you wanted - ”

Charles doesn't smile at all. ”Never fear, _old friend_ , your virtue is quite safe with me. Now, take your clothes off.”

When Erik still doesn't move, Charles is almost grateful; it makes staying angry all that much easier. He closes his eyes, concentrates – and opens them to a round white cell, never visited but plucked from Erik's mind as easily as a weed from the ground. Next to him, the other stiffens as he takes in the new surroundings. ”Charles - ”

”You realize I could leave you here,” Charles says conversationally, cutting him off. ”For an hour, a day – forever. I'm sure Hank would only be too eager to find a way to sustain your body while I keep your mind trapped in here. It'd be fitting, wouldn't it, putting you back into the prison we should never have freed you from.”

And for the first time since they begun this strange exercise, there's honest, unguarded fear on Erik's face. The emotion is strong enough to bleed through Charles' telepathic shields in a brief flash of wordless terror, and he should feel bad about this, really he should, he _does_ , but he thinks back to a Cuban beach, to Raven bleeding on the ground, to Hank and Logan almost killed, to a decade lost to pain, to Erik's miserable, relentless callousness in the face of it all, and he doesn't relent.

”It'd serve you right, being left to rot here,” he says, and – in that moment – means it. ”Seems an excellent way to keep you from doing any more harm, too.”

He pauses, taking a step closer to the other. Only inches separating them now, and for once Erik averts his eyes rather than match Charles stare for stare. The victory of it is sweet, sweet, sweet, but Charles keeps his voice even. ”Mark me. There's preciously little to stay my hand, so either you accept and cooperate fully with the punishment you're given, and are grateful for my mercy, or I'll give you the punishment you truly deserve.” Another pause, longer. ”Yes?”

Erik closes his eyes, jerks his head once: _yes_. And underneath it, not verbalized but plainative enough to be unmistakable: _not here, not here, please, not here._

Well, Charles believes he's already made his point. Besides, he doesn't particularly care for this space either, and he _had_ boasted mercy just a moment ago. A heartbeat and the cell is gone, replaced by the familiar walls and furniture of his bedroom. Erik's eyes are still tightly shut, but they fly open as Charles snaps his fingers. The relief on his face is palpable and for a moment compassion threatens to drown out Charles' anger and steely resolve –

There'll be time for compassion later.

”Clothes off,” he orders, and this time Erik doesn't hesitate to obey his command. He undresses quickly, and without apparent embarrassment or shame. Charles knows that the other is entirely unsentimental about his body, and regards it as little more than a tool, or a weapon; it's not the nakedness per se he'd objected to before, Charles is sure.

Always neat, Erik steps away to put his trousers and pants down on the drawer rather than simply tossing them to the side. Then he is standing in front of Charles, arms to his side. He has schooled his features back into blankness, both fear and relief gone as if they never were – but gone, too, is the earlier disdain, the arrogance.

Erik, stripped down. Erik, laid bare before his gaze.

Charles doesn't even bother trying not to look; surely they are past that sort of pretense now. Erik's legs are long, pale, the coarse hair on them sparse and a reddish brown. The pubic hair, by contrast, is much darker, plentiful.

He is circumcised, but of course he would be.

He is also beautiful, but this Charles has known for a long time.

The belt is still heavy in his hand, his grip on it never once relaxing. A quick glance to the wall, and where a moment ago there was only wallpaper, there's now a pair of steel manacles on a short chain. Charles nods towards them. ”Put them on, then as you were before.”

Erik immediately turns, and if there's any reaction to the sight of the restraints, Charles doesn't catch it. As the other snaps the manacles shut around his wrists and plants his palms against the wall, Charles allows himself a moment to admire the lean curve of the other's arse, but the desire it inspires is muted and distant.

It is something else he hungers for, now.

”Free yourself,” he orders, once Erik is standing with his hands firmly secured to the wall, legs parted for balance and allowing a rather intriguing view of his balls and cock.

Erik does nothing. Incomprehension rather than reluctance, Charles thinks, but that doesn't stop him from bringing the belt down full force across the bound man's buttocks. Clearly startled, Erik lets out something halfway to a cry, and the flare in Charles' belly is triumph is pleasure is want.

” _Free_ yourself,” he repeats. ”Use your powers to break the chain.”

And now Erik does try, Charles can feel him reach out, but nothing happens, nothing at all.

Charles smiles. ”You see.” He is vaguely proud of this little touch, using metal to restrain the other, denying him his ability to manipulate it; insult added to injury. Not that Erik would be able to move at all if Charles didn't let him, but he quite enjoys the overt manifestation of his control, and Erik's helplessness.

Erik, on the other hand, doesn't seem to be enjoying it at all. He has frozen, determined stillness transformed into the rigid stiffness of a cornered prey, but his mind is a shrieking whirlwind piercing even Charles' shielding, throwing and tossing this way and that, desperately reaching, stretching, struggling -

It rather reminds Charles of a panicked bird, slamming against every surface in a mindless bid to escape its cage. He finds it curious – though not necessarily disagreeable – that Erik should react so strongly to the temporary loss of his powers. After all, the man had known full well that this was always a possibility once they were inside Charles' mind, and he hadn't seemed particularly bothered by it when Charles demonstrated his control by dispelling Erik's grip on the inkstand earlier.

Ah, well. Charles supposes the knowledge that a thing may come to pass and the stark reality of it are two very different things.

Given the sheer intensity of Erik's frenzy, it is impressive how quickly he manages to get it under control – or at least enough under control that he's no longer broadcasting it. Charles watches, and waits, and in less than a minute the mental clamor has died down. It's almost a shame; the taste of Erik's fear is seductive in all its newness.

At least the tense set of Erik's shoulders remain. At least the long fingers are white from pressing against the wall so hard.

”It's not very nice, is it?” Charles asks, slowly circling the other, taking his measure. ”Being helpless. Robbed of your independence by someone you trusted.”

Erik doesn't reply. Charles' hand whips out, tangling in Erik's hair to pull his head back sharply. ”It's not very _nice_ ,” he repeats. ” _I_ _s it?_ ”

”No.” More grunt than word, forced past the unnatural bend of his neck. Erik has closed his eyes again, but doesn't struggle against the grip. Charles keeps it for another moment, because he can, and because he likes the way Erik's hair feels against his palm.

”No,” Charles eventually agrees, quietly, taking a step back. ”And yet you were so very happy to just leave me bleeding on the beach. You were so quick to condemn me to a wheelchair for the rest of my life. Be quiet!” he snaps, when Erik turns his face towards him and opens his mouth to speak. ”You will _listen_ for once in your goddamn life, you will just _listen_ , because I want you to understand what you've done, and this time you don't get to run away from it, Erik. You don't get to _hide_.” The words are punctuated by a lash to the upper thighs, and now Charles doesn't hold back at all. ”You may scream if you must,” he adds, hitting Erik again. In another time, another place, he'd be terrified at the careless indifference in his own voice.

Erik keeps his tongue. His body trembles with the shock of the blow, and the next and the next; he hisses with the sharp sting of each lash, but he doesn't speak. It pleases Charles, the obedience, but it does little to assuage the cold rage in his chest.

”You're a hypocrite, you do realize that, yes?” he says, and that feels a little better, getting to throw that in Erik's face without the other being allowed to offer neither justification nor counter-accusation.

It feels better still to let a new strike land just on top of the last one and hear a strangled cry. ”You talk about how humans will come for us, but the greatest threat to us have always been _you_. Hank, Logan, Raven… it was _you_ who hurt them, Erik, not the humans. It was you who tried to kill them, just because they got in your way.”

Erik does try to speak then, to offer some sort of token protest no doubt, but Charles gives him no chance; the belt lands on Erik's back, his buttocks, his thighs, again and again in rapid succession, each blow more vicious still than the last. Whatever words Erik would have offered is turned into gasps and, eventually, whimpers.

”So much for protecting them,” Charles snarls, ignoring the way his palm hurts from the buckle digging into it. ”They were all disposable the moment you decided they were too much bother, weren't they? Nothing must ever be allowed to stand between you and your _fucking_ megalomania, and you don't care how many bodies, or whose, you have to step over. You didn't care when it was _mine_.” And that is raw and too painful and too private, but _so what, so fucking what_ _–_

He is not sure if Erik can actually hear him over the sound of leather against naked skin, over the pain of it, but he is past caring.  The words rise like bitter bile, swallowed and rotting in his gut for too long, now spilling over his lips without him seeming able –  or wanting  – to stop  them .  ” We freed you. After everything, we came for you because we  _needed_ you, and you betrayed us again,  _you shot my sister_ .” 

God, but he remembers the look on her face, th e moment of happiness at the sight of Erik immediately transforming into disbelieving horror. His own heart turning to ice when Erik lifted the gun, how he'd tried to knock him out, but he was too weak, drug abuse and despair leaving him a  burnt-out shell of what he once was, and Erik taking advantage of that, as he always took any advantage offered to him, no regard for who might be hurt in the process  _–_

”You nearly ruined everything.” Some of the anger bled out of his voice now, replaced by a dreadful, hollow chill. His hand falls to the side, belt dangling uselessly from it. ”You would have turned them all against us just to have your war, and you would have destroyed us. That's how much all your talk is worth, Erik. All those pretty words about freedom for our kind, and your actions betray every one of them. You apologize for leaving me a cripple and then you drop a stadium on me. You tell me you didn't kill the president, and then you go ahead and try to murder another one. You blame me for abandoning you all, but you never gave a damn about any of us, about _me_ , just your stupid, pointless _war_.”

Breathing hard, heart pounding as if after a long run, he takes a step back.  E rik is sagging,  trembling,  hands clenched tight around the chain to keep himself upright. Knee to neck, the back of his body is a mess or red and purp le. T hough he has yet to scream each breath is a  ragged  sob, and yes – moving  a little to the side , Charles sees tears streaming down  his face .

Beaten into submission. Brought low. Broken, just as Charles wanted him  _–_

It's not enough.

He doesn't just want Erik crumpling from pain – although, all right, he does want that too – but to know that the other has realized, truly realized, just how badly he's hurt them, how badly he's hurt  _Charles_ . And maybe Erik does, now, but maybe he doesn't;  t here's no way to tell, not just from looking at him. 

Setting his jaw, Charles reaches out. The pain – Erik's pain – hits him like a wall of flame and it is all he can not to howl, but he pushes past it, pushes down, deeper. Guilt he finds, yes, and much more of it than expected, and grief, and something else, hidden –

And then, finally, Charles _understands_ , and he begins to laugh, the sound high-pitched and near hysterical. ”Oh, but you _wanted_ this, didn't you? You _wanted_ to be punished, to be hurt. All that talk about letting me have my revenge – and it was really all about _you_ , wasn't it? The guilt getting a bit too much for you, Erik? All those deaths and betrayals a bit too heavy to bear?”

”Charles, I - ” Barely a whisper.

”Shut up.” He merely needs think it, and Erik's mouth snaps shut. Charles grabs hold of his jaw, fingers digging in painfully. ”I don't want to hear it, Erik,” he hisses, face just inches from the other's. ”I don't want to hear any more of your apologies or your excuses. They mean _nothing_ and I'm sick and tired of them.”

_Please, Charles -_

”I told you to _shut up_!” And this is easy too, robbing the other of his mental voice as well as of his physical one, leaving him utterly mute. When Charles slaps him across the face, splitting his lip, there's not the merest hint of a whimper.

”You think this changes anything?” he demands. ”Makes up for anything? I could flay the skin of your back and that wouldn't bring one single person back from the dead. It won't make me walk again or undo any of the harm you've done.” Contempt or fury, he cannot say, but the sneer on his face makes his lips hurt. ”You think you're a little child, and if you just take your spanking all will be forgiven? You have no fucking idea what you're talking about.”

His hand is back on the side of Erik's face, but not grasping now; the touch is almost gentle. His words are anything but: ”Let me show you.”

And he does; he pours it all into Erik, dredging up every memory and every hurt, every moment of pain and loss and heartbreak. They're on a Cuban beach and at first there's no pain, only shock, and then there's still no pain, not of the physical variety anyway, only a far more terrifying absence of sensation. And Raven will stay because he is hurt but she wants to go even though he's hurt and he can't keep her, and Erik leaves, and he makes Moira forget, and he is alone, alone, alone.

The bullet passes through Shaw's brain, slowly, so slowly, and Charles screams, giving voice to Shaw's scream, silenced as Erik is silenced now, soundless, endless agony, and he makes Erik feel every single second of it.

Two teachers killed in the same week, and the last of the students leaves. Hank locks the gates and Charles locks his heart away, or tries to. But the voices are everywhere, deafening, too much suffering, and the legs he cannot feel aches and burns.

He dreams of Raven's death, and only when he wakes up does he remember that he's had this dream before. Night after night, her beautiful face – blue, or not, it doesn't matter, it should never have mattered, _Raven what did I do to you_ – bloodied, her body broken and abandoned. His fear for her is so tangible, so real that he cannot wash the taste of it away no matter how many bottles of whisky he drinks.

A chess game on a plane, and he's not prepared for the force with which old hope roars back into life, Erik's face across the table, eyes sincere, and maybe –

Shouldn't betrayal hurt less the second time?

Charles crawls across the floor, reaching for the syringe, but he's so tired and when Hank finds him two hours later he's covered in his own vomit. Erik punches him in the face, Paris – no, Cuba – no, Paris. ”I'm afraid the chances of you ever walking again are very slime, Dr. Xavier.” When the news of Sean's death reaches them the boy has already been dead for a month. He dreams of Raven again, it's been years and no word. The absence where Erik's mind should be is making him physically ill.

Images blurring together, too many memories now, passing by too quickly, but always that incredible sense of loss, grief growing into despair into apathy, and the constant empty knowledge of _Erik did this to me, he abandoned me to this,_ _you_ _abandoned me_.

Somebody is screaming, and it takes Charles a very long time to realize that it's him.

Pulling back from the maelstrom of memories is almost too much of an effort, and it leaves him shaking and gasping for air. Emptied out; spent. Before him, Erik has crumpled against the wall. He is crying soundlessly but violently, not the quiet tears from before, but great, heaving sobs that shake his whole body, even as it hangs limply from the chain. His eyes are open, but his gaze slides past Charles, lost in the distance, locked onto some other horror, and Charles sees his own despair etched into every line of that beloved face –

_Oh, God._

Concentrating desperately, Charles blinks his eyes open, truly open, and feel a wave of violent nausea wash over him. The transition from pure spirit to embodied is always uncomfortable, but this time the contrast between the mind world left behind and the physical reality before him is extremely unsettling. Erik appears not to have moved a muscle since they began; he is standing in the middle of the room, arms to his side, a prisoner still of Charles' telepathic hold. The warm light of the table lamp falls over his dark shirt, and only the uneven, quick rise and fall of his chest under it suggests any sort inner turmoil. No split lip, no bruises, no tears.

_What the hell did we just do?_

A glance at the clock on the beside table reveals that they've only been here for little more than half an hour.

It feels longer. It feels like forever.

Without giving himself a chance to think on it, Charles has Erik pick him up and put him down on the bed, with his back against the headboard and useless legs stretched out before him. Then, he makes Erik lie down next to him, directing the man's head onto his own lap. Only then, when Charles has his hand on the nape of Erik's neck, does he cede control of Erik's body back to him. He half expects the other to abruptly pull away, curse him, hit him, run off, but Erik does not. He merely lets out a long, deep shudder, and squeezes his eyes shut. His body begins to tremble, one hand clenching the duvet. But even when the tears start to flow, Charles' – insanely – doesn't detect any particular distress from the other. There's bone-deep weariness, pain, grief and guilt, but there's a strange calmness too, and something almost like relief.

Charles has no idea what to say, so he says nothing. He suspects that there are a great many things he should be feeling right now, suspects that there's a whirlwind of emotions waiting to rip right through him, but for the moment his own mind appear as oddly muted as Erik's. It isn't unpleasant; he is simply very tired. Erik's skin is warm under his fingers as Charles slowly, gently, rubs and kneads his neck, and the last thing he knows before sleep claims him is Erik reaching out to take his other hand.

Charles lets him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a bitch to write, which is the main reason it took so much longer to do than I intially expected. If you have any thoughts on what worked or didn't work, what you liked or didn't like, I would absolutely love to hear it.
> 
> Coming up: the comfort part of hurt/comfort, but also rather a lot of uncomfortable discussions.


	3. Mend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry about the long wait, guys. Life happened? But at least it's a slightly longer chapter so there's that. Oh, and lots of emotions and cuddles and Erik being his usual difficult self.

Charles wakes up to a pounding headache and the taste of dead rat in his mouth. It must have been a hell of a party, because he can't remember being this hungover in  _ years- _

Something warm and heavy pinning down his arm and chest and... _ Erik _ .

It takes but an instant for the reflexive, unguarded joy of the recognition to transform into icy horror as the memories of last night reassert themselves.  _ Oh, God... _

The horror, too, passes quickly, mostly because Charles resolutely wills it so. Had he been alone he may well have indulged in what Raven would term a full-fledged freak-out, but with Erik still here he'd rather not. Mentally preparing himself for what will surely be awkward as hell he opens his eyes – and is surprised to find Erik still asleep.

This is... new. When circumstances have made them share a bed in the past, the other has always been up and about long before Charles begins to stir.

Now, Erik is on his side, head on Charles' arm, his own arm draped over Charles' chest. He looks more peaceful than Charles can ever remember seeing him. More haggard too, he realizes with a frown. Whether it's dark lenses dropped or the daylight – streaming in rather obnoxiously and much too sharp through the tall windows – he sees now what he'd failed to see last night: how thin Erik has become, how deep the lines on his face. Even now, in sleep, he looks exhausted.

He looks beautiful, too. His body is warm against Charles', his hair tickling Charles' neck. There's a faint smell of sweat and something artificially sweet, like lingering aftershave.

It doesn't make any sort of sense, waking up to  _ this _ after all that happened last night, not when  _ this _ has been haunting his dreams for many years, leaving him angry and longing and hurt when he wakes to the invariably empty bed and empty house –

Charles is half-tempted to let the other rest and himself enjoy the tranquil intimacy of the moment for a while longer. But his head really  _ is _ hurting, as is his neck and arm from the half-slumped sleeping position. He's thirsty as hell too, almost as hungry and though he can't feel the press of his bladder, he's pretty sure a trip to the loo wouldn't be a terrible idea.

All in all, remaining in bed doesn't seem like much of an option right now, more's the pity. Charles isn't necessarily looking forward to the confrontation that will – must – follow a night like last one. Remembering the things he had said, had done...

Thank God Erik isn't awake to see him blush. He takes a moment to regain his composure, such as it is, before giving the other a gentle mental nudge, carefully coaxing the sleeping mind back into wakefulness. It's a shockingly quick process; one moment Erik is deep asleep, the next his eyes are open and aware and staring at Charles without the merest hint of confusion.

Of course it had been too much to hope for some small moment of disorientation.

“ Good morning,” Charles says, suddenly very conscious of how close the other is. Lean in just an inch and their noses would touch. He expects Erik to pull away, but Erik doesn't move.

Charles' clears his throat. “And how are we doing today?”

Erik looks at Charles like he's an idiot, and by the time he's offering a pointedly dismissive and entirely dishonest “I am fine” Charles is already reading his mind, because if that's how Erik wants to play this, then that's fine, absolutely fine.

Not faring much better than Charles himself, apparently; headache, thirsty, hungry... sore?

Charles blinks. “Sore? How could you possibly be sore?” While the pain is much too faint compared to what it would be after a real whipping, it is still undeniably there, a lingering, burning ache in Erik's back and legs.

“ Psychosomatic,” Charles murmurs, mostly to himself as he delicately pushes and prods to make sense of the intriguing sensation. “The body still believes it was beaten, even though there's no actual physical stimuli. It's fascinating. I'm sorry,” he adds, off Erik's decidedly non-fascinated glare. “I can make it go away? At least I think I – “

“ No.”

The answer comes quickly, decisively, and just like that Charles' fascination with the unexpected effects of telepathically induced pain is gone. He pulls back a little from Erik, watching the other with a small frown. Erik stares right back at him, unblinking. He doesn't look at all traumatized by the events of last night, and he doesn't  _ feel  _ traumatized either, and that's... Well, that's  _ good _ , obviously, but it's also suggestive of several things that are not necessarily fantastic.

_ Ah, such fun we'll have, dealing with this... _

First things first, however.

“ I need to shower and put on some clothes I haven't slept in,” Charles says briskly. “If you want to do the same, your old room hasn't been touched. Breakfast wouldn't go amiss either, seeing as we're both starving. I'd offer to make us some, but we both know it'll be a lot quicker for you to pipe down to the kitchen. Some tea and toast will do splendidly, if you'd be so kind. And then,” he finishes, eyes catching Erik's, “you and I are going to have a nice long chat about what happened last night.”

“ Get out of my head, Charles.”

“ No, I'm afraid I won't,” Charles replies without a hint of apology. “Not until we've had a chance to sort things out, at any rate. I'd say I'm sorry, Erik, but you lied to me, again. Which is one of the things we'll be discussing, by the way. And we  _ will  _ discuss it,” he adds, easily picking up the rebellious thoughts of the other. “I won't make you not want to run, but if you try, I will stop you. So, see you back here in... forty-five minutes? Excellent.”

“ Got a taste for ordering me around, I see.” Voice sardonic, teeth bared in something that is not actually a smile.

Charles is unmoved. “You should have known better than to wet my appetite.”

For a moment, Erik simply stares at him, and Charles hears at least half a dozen things he doesn't say. Then the other abruptly sits up and stalks out of the room without a backward glance.

_ Forty-five minutes _ , Charles sends after him, and receives a very eloquent silence in return.

Though the bed suddenly feels too big and too empty, Charles can't help but let out a long sigh of relief once the door has closed behind Erik. He desperately needs these forty-five minutes he realizes, and not only to shower and get dressed, but to sort out his own thoughts and feelings about last night. Only then will he be anywhere near ready to deal with Erik's...

What time is it anyway? A glance at the alarm clock and  _ almost eleven, really? _ Charles normally makes a point of getting up at eight these days, and he's a bit surprised Hank hasn't stopped by to check on him yet. Though neither of them have ever mentioned it, they both know that Charles' new morning routine and Hank's quiet knocks on the door whenever the other fails to show his face before ten is a way of making up for past failures, and learning from them.

Speaking of Hank... Charles should probably alert him to Erik's presence, because he has no illusions about how an unexpected encounter between the two men would go. Reaching out to his friend, he finds him awake and at work in the lab.

_ Good morning _ , Charles sends, and then raises a curious eyebrow as Hank shies away from the mental touch, sensing embarrassment and worry and –

_ Another knock on the door, but still no reply, Charles hasn't slept this late in months, he's fine, he's been doing so well, but what if he's not fine, so Hank opens the door but the soft call on his lips die as he catches sight of Charles cuddled up to  _ **_Erik_ ** _ on the bed, and they're both fully dressed, but God, and he's closing the door, cheeks flaming and guts churning with alarm. _

Charles feels his own face grow red.

_ Hank, we're not... That is to say, ah. This isn't what it looks like. _ It's worse, really, but that he keeps to himself. There are a great number of things he'd rather do than share what had happened last night with anyone else. Swallow a handful of broken glass, for instance, or stab himself repeatedly in the eye.

_ Yeah, um. Okay. That's... Well, that's none of my business really. I'll just stay in the lab for a bit, I guess.  _ Oh, Hank. Unassuming, adaptive – but underneath it there's a fierce protectiveness, and Charles knows that if push comes to shove, Hank will not hesitate to confront Erik.

He feels a warm burst of affection for the other, and makes sure some of that bleeds through their mental connection before he lets it fade.

Making his way into the bathroom takes far more time and effort than he would like, but he's slowly getting used to that again, and the shower is gloriously warm. Charles would gladly stay under the hot spray for at least another half an hour, but he's told Erik forty-five minutes. (Erik's mind is a faint buzz in the back of his head, Charles never pushing deep enough to know exactly what the other is thinking or doing, but constantly keeping an eye on him to make sure he doesn't actually make a run for it.)

Dried and dressed and as composed as he feels can be reasonably expected, Charles is just making his way over to the desk when Erik pushes the door open and enters with a large tray in his hands. Sporting a familiar black turtleneck and a guarded look on his face, Erik might just as well have stepped right out of 1962 and their very first night at the CIA headquarters.

Charles can't recall the other ever bringing him breakfast back then, though, so maybe not everything was better in the old days after all.

Erik puts the tray down on the desk in silence, and there's tea and toast as requested, but also orange juice, bacon, mushrooms and scrambled eggs. “You've lost weight,” he says almost defensively when Charles glances at him. “You need to eat.”

_ You're one to talk _ , Charles thinks wryly, though only to himself. And:  _ what is this? Genuine concern, a subtle attempt at making amends, or your way of reasserting some sense of power and control? _ He could find out, but though he's determined not to be lied to again he keeps his touch on the other man's psyche light enough and shallow enough to glean surface emotions and not much more.

He doesn't want to have to read Erik's mind. He wants the other to just be honest with him.

They eat in silence. Both of them ravenous; Charles wanting to save the conversation for when they're not; Erik unwilling to have it at all. The French window is still open to the grounds, and there's the occasional cry of a bird to disturb the erratic melody of cutlery against fine china. It is tense and strange and uncomfortable, and yet Charles is powerfully struck by how easy and familiar and  _ right _ it feels, sharing a meal with Erik.

He suspects Erik might share the sentiment, though he cannot be certain. The other keeps his thoughts carefully quiet, leaving Charles with little else than vague impressions of confusion and wariness mingled with affection and a subdued sort of reluctant, wordless longing.

“ Thank you for breakfast,” Charles offers when the plates are clean and the teacups empty. “Would you mind helping back on the bed?” Normally  _ Charles _ would mind, and terribly so, but he has an inkling – more intuition than anything plucked from Erik's mind – that letting the other do something for him might not be a bad thing right now.

Erik's arms are strong, their hold firm but yet infinitely gentle as he picks Charles up and puts him down onto the mattress, much as he had last night, though of his own volition this time. Charles shifts a little, pulling up some pillows behind him before settling back against the headboard. He pats the spot next to him. “Join me.”

Erik's eyes immediately narrow. “Why?”

“ Because we're about to have a difficult conversation and I'd rather we are both comfortable when we do.” Voice calm; mind mostly so. He'd spent the time in the bathroom carefully considering what he needs to say to the other, and what he needs to ask, and how.

The look of disapproval on Erik's face is strong enough to be almost comical. “I don't need to be  _ cuddled _ , Charles.”

That, Charles suspects, is an abject lie, but he can tell that it's a lie that Erik believes and rather than argue this point he simply offers: “Perhaps  _ I  _ do.” It's even true. After yesterday – after what he's done to the other – the need to hold him, touch him, is almost overwhelming.

Erik remains on the floor, arms crossed over his chest. Charles holds back a sigh; how utterly and depressingly predictable that Erik would find it easier to accept pain than comfort. “Indulge me. Please.”

For a moment he thinks that Erik will refuse, but then the other gives an aggravated huff and settles down next to Charles. Refusing to be put off by Erik's deliberate and at least partly feigned show of reluctance, Charles puts an arm around the other man's waist and pulls him closer. Erik doesn't exactly cooperate, but he doesn't resist either, and ends up leaning against Charles, head neatly resting in the nook of his neck.

Sighing softly, Charles allows himself to simply savour the proximity, the feel of Erik's warm body pressed against his own, the weight of it. His arm is still sneaked around the other, and his palm rests on Erik's abdomen. The fabric of the black polo feels almost coarse beneath his hand, and underneath that there's the beat of Erik's heart, slow and steady.

He notes that Erik, for all his protests, is very quick to relax into the touch.

He notes, too, that Erik notices him noticing. Charles holds his breath, but Erik doesn't pull away; there's just a flash of vague irritation followed by resigned, grudging fondness, which Erik clearly means for him to see.

Is this what they could have had, Charles wonders a little wistfully, if things had gone differently in Cuba? Leisurely breakfasts by the open window, slow mornings spent together in bed?

Erik shifts slightly, and Charles feels the faint but distinct pain in his back as were it his own, and it very effectively brings him back to the present. He takes a deep breath: “I suppose I should begin by telling you how dreadfully sorry I am about last night. The things I said and did... It wasn't right, and I'm sorry, Erik.”

“ You have nothing to apologize for. I offered, Charles. I wouldn't have if I didn't want you to take me up on it.” Utterly dismissive; somewhat impatient.

“ I know you wouldn't have,” Charles retorts. He hadn't expected Erik to accept his apology; knows that the man is telling the truth as he sees it when he claims that Charles has no reason to extend it. “So would you care to tell me what that was all about then?”

He wishes he could be surprised when Erik remains pointedly silent. Biting back the urge to say something unkind, Charles just rolls his eyes. “Let me, then. Your 'spontaneous' notion that I should punish you wasn't spontaneous at all. In fact, you came here with this as your one and only goal, and framed it in such a way as to make me believe it was for my benefit. Once we were inside my head, for lack of a better word, you deliberately goaded me into hurting you, and then into hurting you more.”

Erik doesn't protest. Charles has the right of it, and they both know that.

“ What on Earth were you thinking?” Charles demands, when it becomes obvious that Erik isn't going to volunteer any explanation.

” I'm sorry.”

” Are you?” Charles asks, rather sharply.

Erik turns his head to look him right in the eye, impatience evident on his face as well as in his thoughts. ”Well, no. Yesterday you wouldn't even talk to me. Today you won't let me leave before we do, and demand you get to have your arms around me for it. It's hard not to see this as an improvement, Charles.”

It's silly, really, that Charles should feel even slightly giddy at the offhand admission that having Charles arms around him reads as an improvement to Erik. ”Yeah, well,” he says with as much sternness as he can muster. ”I'm not sure you should be rewarded for lying to me.”

Erik's reaction is… not what he expects. Rather than offering some dry or dismissive retort, Erik appears to falter, and turns his face away. Frowning, Charles pushes deeper into the other man's mind, and there it is, troubling in its intensity:  _ worry _ , that Charles will tell him to leave.  _ Fear _ , that this is but a brief respite from Charles' anger and stubborn refusal to have anything to do with Erik. And most urgently, chillingly, Erik's dawning realization that he's fucked up again, ruining whatever chance there was of a proper reconciliation –

_ Oh dear. _ Charles sighs, pulling back a little mentally even as he pulls Erik closer.

” Shush, darling. You didn't ruin anything,” he promises quietly, running a hand through the other man's hair. The casual affection, words and gesture, comes easily, naturally; and just as easily Erik's acceptance of it as he pushes into the caress.

A pause, because as strong as the urge is to offer comfort and soothe, there are still things that need to be said. Charles sighs again, removing his hand. ”I won't tell you to leave, Erik. We're not fine, and I'm still angry with you, but I'm won't tell you to leave. I don't want you to.” Another pause, longer. ”You must see that lying to me and pushing me to do things I really wish I hadn't done… It might have made us talk again, but it's also made it even harder for me to trust you.”

” Yes. I understand.” And he does; had Charles not read it in his mind, he'd still have heard it in Erik's voice.

That's one small step forward, at least. ”So why did you do it?”

” Why don't you just  _ look _ , Charles, if you're so desperate to know? You're already in my head, I can feel you poking around.”

From fearful to reasonable to annoyed and deliberately rude in less than a minute; how people perceive Erik as a man made of ice rather than an emotionally wrecked drama queen, Charles will never know. (Except he's fallen for the iceman routine more than just a few times himself, because after Cuba it's just been that much easier to pretend that the other is nothing but a heartless, ruthless monster, and he should have known better, but.)

He knows that Erik is trying to provoke him into an argument about the ethical aspects of mind-reading –  _ and really, Erik, you've got absolutely no high ground to stand on here _ – and it might even have worked, had not Charles come thoroughly prepared for and determined to ignore such tactics of distraction. ”I'd rather you told me, but I can look, if that makes it easier for you,” is all he says.

No verbal reply, but he can feel Erik's shields drop ever so slightly and that's as much invitation as he's ever going to get. Reaching out and reaching down and –

_ He is alone and the walls are endlessly white. Day bleeding into day, how long since he spoke with anyone, the lights go on, new day, the walls are white. _

_ Charles doesn't come for him. Emma is dead, and Azazel is dead, and one day Banshee is dead, too, and where is Charles, Charles doesn't come, Erik didn't expect him to but still, and he is alone. _

_ Charles comes, so angry, broken, but Charles, but the world outside is too sharp and too much, and Mystique, but what choice does he have, she has to understand, except he fails, he needs to salvage this, any cost any means, no more hiding, no fear, he will protect them but he nearly destroys them, destruction is what he is, Charles you were wrong. _

_ The walls are flaking red and he is alone and all the noises too loud and the guilt inside him too huge. He can't stand being inside, and he can't stand going out, and he dreams of white walls and all of his failures, and Charles, and he swallows his pride and please, anything, something that just for a moment isn't the endless, empty expanse of days stretching ahead, lonely and lost, and he panics at the sound of a paper slipping from the table and sliding to the floor, the whoosh of it not unlike the soft whoosh of a plastic tray sliding into his cell, anything, please – _

Charles swallows a cry and just barely resists the impulse to blindly push Erik away. It's still reflex to him, shying away from pain, but stronger still is the desperate wish to pull Erik up and out of the abyss of suffocating memories and the terrible loneliness pervading them all. 

” Erik.” Charles’ voice doesn’t quite break, but it’s a close call, and there’s too much compassion and too much regret to ever fit into those two simple syllables. His cheeks are already wet. ”You are not alone.”

_ Disbelief; mistrust; desolation _ . Erik doesn't believe him. Charles’ palm is pressed against his cheek and Charles’ arm is around him and Charles’ mind is a fervent murmur of  _ safety _ and  _ family _ and _ love _ , and still  Erik cannot believe. There’s too much between them for such simple reassurances, Charles realizes with a sinking feeling. Too many years and too much pain for mere words to ever bridge the distance. Insurmountable, the separation, hopeless –

Charles leans in and Erik doesn't pull away and the kiss has nothing of desire but everything of need and this was never how it was supposed to be, this isn't how it should happen, but Erik's lips are surprisingly soft and the kiss deepens and linger. Too much hunger and desperation for there to be joy, but still they cling to it, to each other, and let the kiss be imperfectly what words cannot yet be at all  _ (I am here I am here you are not alone I am here) _ . On and on, Charles' hand holding Erik's head in place, Erik's fingers tangling in Charles' hair, push and pull, and is this the feel of Erik's tongue against his or his against Erik's, whose teeth and whose lips, no matter; sensations bleeding into each other and blending as the kiss gradually eases into something slower and almost gentle; a quiet promise of other, different kisses to come, in a time when neither of them have anything left to prove.

Eventually, the kiss ends, as all kisses must. They pull back, but not far: forehead to forehead, Charles' hand still at the back of Erik's head, and their breathing is even and calm, sharing air. The tears on Charles' cheek have dried; Erik's not quite yet.

” I am sorry,” Charles says. ”I didn't know, I didn't realize… I am so sorry, Erik.” More so than he can say, because he  _ should _ have known. Of course a decade spent in isolation will take its toll on anyone, even Erik, and of course recent events will weigh heavily on him. But to think the man so desperate for a connection that even last night had seemed a good idea… He had come here not to earn the forgiveness he thought himself far, far beyond, but just to, for brief little while, feel something that wasn't just guilt or failure, be something other than adrift and utterly alone.

And Charles hadn't noticed. Good Lord, but he hadn't had a clue.

Erik says nothing. His eyes are closed, but when he shifts to press his face into Charles' neck it feels like absolution. Charles wraps his arms around him, hugs him tight, and surely it shouldn't be this easy, to finally have come to this point after years and years of silent longing, and in a way so far removed from anything he had ever dreamed.

Smiling, he'd imagined them; happy and free, and mindful of nothing but the beauty of the other's body and mind.

Maybe one day.

” Will you stay?” he asks. It is premature, of course it is, and potentially insane. Logically, what has passed between them today and last night has done nothing to address the deeper issues of their bitter quarrel; has done nothing to resolve it; changes nothing – but it feels like it changes everything, and for better and for worse, with Erik Charles has never not followed his heart.

Erik lifts his head slightly, the look in his eyes once more calculating. Always quick to bounce back, Erik, at least outwardly. ”Will you stay out of my head if I do?”

Charles hesitates, the need for the other not to leave warring with his need to be honest. ”No,” he finally admits. ”I will not.”

” You don't trust me.”

More statement than accusation, but Charles still raises an eyebrow. ”I'm sorry, old friend, but you haven't given me much reason to.” And that still hurts, but not as badly as it did yesterday. Not even nearly. ”It won't be forever,” he adds. ”Think of it as penance if you like.”

Erik makes a face at that, but then the grimace transforms into a wicked grin. ”I can think of far more interesting ways of offering penance.” And with the words an image picked from early on last night very deliberately pushed to the forefront of Erik's mind.

It's hard not to flinch from the image, and from the surge of lust it prompts.  _ Damn  _ Erik, why would he –

And then Charles' eyes widen as, belatedly, realization hits: ”You _ liked _ it.”

Erik hums non-committedly, but he's still smiling and the truth is right there in his mind.

“ I don't see how it's penance if you like it,” Charles points out, a bit weakly and for lack of anything better to say. Too many emotional twists and turns for one morning, though perhaps he should have seen this one coming.

Perhaps he should have added something a bit stronger to his tea.

” I didn't know I would, and I didn't particularly enjoy the latter bits, if that's any consolation.” Erik sounds unconcerned, but Charles feels his stomach drop.  _ The latter bits _ . No, Erik wouldn't have enjoyed those, no sane person would, and no decent person would ever inflict that sort of pain upon another -

” I seem to recall not being the only one having a better time than expected,” Erik continues, indifferent to or uncaring of Charles' discomfort, grin growing wider as he runs his fingers experimentally down Charles' chest. A simple gesture, but new to them, and had the topic of conversation been any other Charles might well have moaned. ” I thought I'd have to spend at least half an hour convincing you to go along with it. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You're always happiest when you get to order people around.”

He wants to protest, but cannot. However... He grabs Erik's hand, stilling the far too enjoyable distraction. “Last night was a mistake. It won't happen again.”

Erik looks supremely unimpressed. “Won't it.”

“ No.”

“ So there's no part of you aching to have me on my knees again? Have me at your command, at your mercy?”

“ For God's sake, Erik.” Charles looks away; looks anywhere but at Erik's intent face.

“ All this talk of embracing our true natures, and yet you've always been too afraid to acknowledge your own darker impulses.”

God, but Charles wants to slap him. Why is it that Erik's every nervous breakdown gets to almost get them all killed, but Charles' are shrugged off as inconsequential silliness?

“ This isn't about what I want, or don't want,” he says harshly, “it's about what's  _ safe _ . Do you even understand how close I came to obliterating you last night? I could have driven you made, I could have snuffed your consciousness out with one single thought, I could have done  _ anything _ .”

“ But you didn't.” Erik gives Charles a tired look, as if Charles is being unreasonably slow. “I've hurt you, Charles,” - genuine regret in his voice now, and the smile gone from his face - “and countless others. I've killed, often and without regret. I am everything you hate and _ still _ you held back. You could have ended me, but you didn't.”

“ I hurt you.”

“ Because I asked you to. And you're right, I came here for my own reasons, but I genuinely thought it'd be good for you too.” Erik shrugs. “If you got some actual enjoyment out of it, I don't see a problem with that.”

“ Well, then, if  _ you _ don't see a problem, I suppose everything's all right!”

Silence, heavy, stretching out. Still entwined, body pressed against body, but the distance between them once more irrefutable. They've always been too quick to come together, and too quick to fall apart, Charles thinks, as he struggles not to say anything more to widen the rift, and watches Erik do the same.

A minute, two, and both of them just breathing, inhale, exhale, until something of the tension has passed. Calming, not healing, but enough for now.

Charles is the first to speak, after letting out a long sigh. “Given your past, it's no surprise that you'd think pain and suffering appropriate means of atonement,” he offers eventually. Erik may have turned his back on God long ago, but his brand of justice is nothing but Old Testament, an eye for an eye and each pound of flesh paid for in kind.

“ It's not about atonement.”

There's a tinge of sadness to Charles' smile. “Isn't it?”

“ _ No _ . It's... “ Erik closes his eyes, frustration evident on his face as he searches for words. He gives good speeches, does Erik, deep convictions readily marrying his flair for the dramatic, but this sort of thing clearly doesn't come easy to him. “It's not just about the pain or humiliation, or punishment,” Erik finally decides aloud. “It's about... not having to be in control anymore. Not make any decisions. Just... to give it all up, and... still be safe.”

_ Safe _ , because nothing will happen that Charles doesn't want to happen. Safe, because after everything Erik still trusts that Charles won't harm him.  _ You could have ended me, but you didn't. _

Silence again, as Charles unsuccessfully tries to swallow the lump in his throat. He doesn't look at Erik, and Erik doesn't look him in the eye, but the other man's fingers resume their deceptively languid exploration of his chest. It'd be easy to to mistake for an idle caress, but there's a faint sense of hesitancy mingling with eagerness to touch, as if Erik is still unsure of his right to.

“ It's a bit about the pain and humiliation, though,” Charles says after a great long while. “You don't want us to go on a mental forest walk, or antiquing. You want me to hurt you. Dominate you.”

“ Yes. Why is is so hard for you to admit that you want the same?” And that's not fair at all, because while Erik's response is immediate, unapologetic, Charles can feel that lingering embarrassment that the other stubbornly suppresses. Charles might be a reluctant sadist, but Erik is no less ambivalent about his own desires; he's just more used to plowing on through discomfort.

“ I'm... It's not... Fine.” Charles turns his head to look Erik straight in the eye. “It's not a side of me I've had reason or wish to confront before. It took me by surprise, and yes, it makes me a bit uncomfortable. But that's not why I'm think this a potentially horrible idea. You've been a victim of torture and abuse and horrors I can only imagine because I've seen them in your mind. As a result of it, you think yourself a monster, capable of nothing but destruction and undeserving of affection or love.”

Erik sets his jaw, mental shields going up as he turns his face away, but Charles is having none of it; he grabs the other man's chin, gently but firmly, and guides it back. “You won't get what you want by hiding from the things you'd rather not hear,” he says sternly. “My point is, you're wrong about what you are and what you deserve, and I won't be party to anything that makes you think otherwise. No matter how arousing I might find it.”

“ You didn't seem so sure of what I deserve or don't deserve last night.” Erik's voice is hard. For a man who claims a deep-seated wish to be dominated, he certainly have issues accepting authority.

Shocker.

Charles smiles faintly, letting go of Erik's chin. “I don't know about that. I'm perfectly convinced you deserve love and affection and, occasionally, a bloody good thrashing.”

A joke, mostly, and in part to distract him from his own guilt, but it – absurdly – appears to reassure Erik, who relaxes back against him. Absently running his fingers through Erik's hair, Charles fervently wishes there was a way to let this be the beginning of them: forget the past and all that still lies between them, and start right here and right now, curled up in one another's arms.

No such mercy in this world, and no use in pretending otherwise. “I went too far last night,” Charles eventually says, reluctantly breaking the comfortable silence. “The fact that you won't even acknowledge that concerns me.”

Stirring, Erik gives him an almost condescending look. “Would you prefer it if I was a wreck? So you can coo and put blankets around me and kiss it all better, perhaps?”

Piqued, Charles pinches Erik's nipple, and is pleased to hear a sharp intake of breath. “Don't be an ass, Erik, of course I don't want that. But  _ if _ we do this, it should be because we both want it, because it's fun. You cannot push me to hurting you more than I'm comfortable with or you truly enjoy just because you think you ought to be punished.”  _ If _ we do this, as if it is still in question. Charles makes a face. How readily he's folded, in spite of all his reservations.

Erik must realize this, because he actually takes the time to mull things over, cooperative in victory. “If you were reading my mind you'd know, wouldn't you? It wouldn't be like last night.” Then he pauses, uncharacteristically hesitant. “You want me to want this for what you think is the right reasons. But I can't be what I'm not, Charles, and I can't tell you that I'd still want it if it wasn't for... everything's that happened. Neither can you.”

Charles closes his eyes. “I know.” He does, and shouldn't that be enough for him to say no and walk away from this? It would be the right thing to do, surely. The actions of a good man.

He's never been as good a man as others think him, and very rarely good enough to say no to what he so desperately wants. And he  _ does _ want Erik kneeling before him again, and more than that he wants to kiss him, and most of all he wants the other not to leave.

In the end, it's really not much of a choice at all.

Opening his eyes, he looks straight into Erik's. “I get the last say on when enough is enough, and you don't ever try to provoke me past that. You'll have a safeword and you  _ will _ use it if you need to. You want something more, or different, you  _ talk  _ to me. Break those rules, and we stop.”

Erik dips his head just once in acquiescence.

Surrendering, Charles leans back against the pillows, pulling Erik with him. It might not be right, and is sure as hell isn't perfect, but it'll do. “I've missed you,” he says, because if this  _ is _ a beginning, it ought to start with something true.

“ But you're still angry with me.” Statement of fact.

“ Yes. I told you, that's not something we're going to solve with whips and chains.” And it's not something he want to think about right now.  


“ I  _ am _ sorry, Charles.” Not a bid for forgiveness, just something Erik think Charles deserves to hear again; an admission laid at his feet like an offering.

“ I know. Give it time.”   


A deep sigh; not regret, Charles senses, but relief, acceptance. “And meanwhile?”

“ Meanwhile... “ Charles voice trails off. He suddenly feels like he's walking a tightrope, struggling to find his balance while the void beckons and calls from beneath. It's gone very quiet; Erik appears to be holding his breath, and Charles realizes he is doing the same. He is struck by a sense of the world coming to a halt as both men wait for the words and actions that will give shape to the things to come.

Very slowly, deliberately, Charles reaches out and tugs at Erik's hair, sharply enough for it to hurt. “Meanwhile, you'd do well to behave better. Lie to me again like you did last night, and I shall be very cross.”

The flash of Erik's smile is at least one part relief and one part gratitude; the rest is pure desire. “Technically - “

Charles tugs harder, and Erik falls silent with a huff. A shiver runs down his spine; Charles suppresses a smile.

“ No more lies, Erik. No more half-truths, not even when you think they're for my benefit. Until I can trust you to be honest with me, I'll make sure you are, understand? And if you misbehave, you'll answer to me.”

Part of the game, that's all, Charles tells himself. Play words, play actions; all pretend and all for fun.

It is, and it isn't. He can tell that Erik knows it, too. His pupils are blown wide, dark with something right between yearning and resistance. The shadow of a shudder, the whisper of a gasp, and Charles feels the other man's internal struggle, the desire to give in battling the urge to snarl and fight back.

Charles' nails dig into Erik's scalp. “And you'll apologize to Hank for trying to kill him in Washington.”

Erik stiffens. “Will you make him apologize for trying to drown me in Paris?”

“ Since he was trying to save my sister's life, no.”

He can hear the protests in Erik's mind, but the seconds pass and Erik remains silent until eventually, and with a demonstrative scoff, he yields: “Fine.”

Charles isn't quite prepared for the rush of sheer delight the other man's concession brings, even as the agreement is undercut by very pointed thoughts of _this doesn't_ _mean I'll just do whatever you want_ and _I'm not your puppet._

_ Never thought you were, darling _ . “Good,” he says aloud, making sure Erik can feel his approval and pleasure, warm, sincere. Erik's mind, in turn, lights up with something Charles can't put a name to, but which is oddly reminiscent of what he'd felt from the other when he'd unlocked the hidden memories of his mother years and years ago. Something vulnerable and almost painful, but eager and joyous as well.

Charles blinks.  _ Really _ not just about pain and humiliation after all, then, and  _ oh _ , he can work with this.

_ Later _ . There'll have all sorts of time to explore the ins and outs of their new understanding – and this, too, is a realization that leaves Charles breathless; they'll have  _ time _ – but for now he pulls Erik close, and Erik never looks away from his face. There's a glint and glimmer in his gray eyes and no hint of hesitation as he pushes into the kiss.

Still a little tentative, but both of them growing bolder and more eager as they familiarize themselves with the other's shape and rhythm. By the time they break apart, Charles lips are swollen and tender and how long has it been since he kissed anyone like this; since he kissed anyone at all?

“ See what happens when you're good?” he murmurs.

Erik snorts. “If you'll only kiss me when I'm good, I can't see us kissing all that often.”

“ More often than you'd think,” Charles says, a rebuke in his words. Erik can be an enormous bastard at times – quite often, actually – but Charles refuses to let the other think himself as intrinsically  _ bad _ .

He runs a thumb over Erik’s cheek, the touch soft. “You are so beautiful, my friend, inside and out.” He can feel Erik respond to the compliment even as he doubts its veracity, and Charles vows to repeat it, again and again. Repeat it, until the other understands it to be true (which he hopes is soon) or Charles grows tired of the little jolt of gladness radiating from Erik as he is praised (which he suspects is never).

“ We should probably get up,” he says with a yawn and a glance at the watch. “I need to go over the lesson plans submitted by the teachers I've already hired before meeting them on tomorrow. Care to have a look? I could use a second opinion.”

“ You want my opinion on lesson plans?” If the raised eyebrow didn't properly convey Erik's extreme skepticism, his tone of voice certainly would. “I'm not a teacher and I didn't agree to stay here to be part of your school, Charles.”

_ Not yet. _ But that's a discussion that can wait. “No, but as long as you're here, you might as well make yourself useful.”

“ I can be very useful,” Erik agrees, seemingly dismissing his annoyance to favour Charles with a meaningful smile. “For a great number of things not involving lesson plans.” And the image he pushes as Charles certainly doesn't.

Charles laughs, a little startled but not displeased, and swats his arm. “You are being awfully forward.”

_ Yes. Good things never last, so better grab hold and cling tight and take what he can while Charles lets him - _

“ Erik, stop.” Torn between exasperation and sympathy, Charles waits until Erik at long last looks him in the eye before continuing: “The universe isn't out to get you and things don't automatically and inevitably fall apart. They do when you tear them apart, so let's not do that this time, yes? Now, I really do have work that needs doing, but I am very much looking forward to spending the evening and night doing all sorts of naughty things with you. Until then, you can help me, or occupy yourself as you see fit. There are things that needs seeing to in the gardens, if you want, but I'm honestly not quite sure what. Ask Hank, he'll know. Oh, and I expect to hear all about your apology to him tonight.”

As intended, Erik's despairing nihilism is replaced with a scowl, but even through the layers of irritation, Charles feels the other relax ever so slightly. Though Erik offers no vocal confirmation, he offers no protests either and his grudging acceptance is plain in his mind.

Good enough, for now. As for later...

Charles smiles.  _ I guess we'll find out. _   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, this fic didn't at all turn out the way I initially intended it to, but that's writing for you I suppose. :) I might try my hand at kink again someday - and try to make it actually kinky rather than emotional. Until then, thanks a lot for reading, kudosing and commenting. I've been rather a wreck over this fic, so your support has meant the world to me. <3


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